


An Interrogation

by Victopteryx



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Minor Cameo by Uchiha Kagami
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: Madara did not die at the Valley of the End. That's not to say he went free, either.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 13
Kudos: 157
Collections: fffffffff





	An Interrogation

There is a room, underneath the Hokage tower. It’s a big room; round, with a small window cut high on the sloping walls. It’s brightly lit, even before the city had electricity. It’s brightly lit to provide visibility to the ones sitting behind the window, cut high on the sloping walls.

Currently, the room contains Uchiha Madara, sitting as still as the rock surrounding him on a neat black _zabuton_ in the middle of the floor. His face is drawn and pale under his ragged black hair. His clothes bear no clan _mon_. He is weaponless and unarmored. He sits stiffly, as if in pain. He is in pain, though it doesn’t show in the hard lines of his face. His hands are balled into fists on his knees. He sits, facing the window, cut high on the sloping walls, and waits with his head bowed.

He does not wait long.

There’s the sound of grating metal, and then the sound of rock scraping against rock, and a hidden door opens on the far side of the room.

Into the room steps Senju Hashirama. He’s wearing the robes of his office; deep vermilion and heavy wool hang from his shoulders. His head is bare; his long brown hair swings behind him as he walks. His face is drawn with something that could be rage. It could also be grief.

He folds his legs and sits facing Uchiha Madara, knees pressing into the cold stone. Behind the window, cut high on the sloping walls, someone’s palm hits their forehead with a soft smack.

“What’s he doing?” asks a voice in the darkened room behind the window.

“Shhh,” responds another.

In the large, well-lit round room, cut into the rock beneath the Hokage tower, Senju Hashirama sits across from Uchiha Madara and drinks the sight of him in like a man dying of thirst.

“You were dead.” Hashirama’s voice rings out around the stone room. It echoes. There is nothing here to soften the impact of his words.

“I was,” Madara agrees. At last, his head rises – barely an inch, hardly more than a slight tension in the muscles at the base of his neck – but his eyes are burning red as they meet Hashirama’s. “How did you find me?”

“You’re hard to miss,” Hashirama says. “Especially for someone like Tobirama.”

“I should have killed him before I left,” Madara says, eyes narrowing.

“If you wanted to remain undetected, then yes, you probably should have.” Hashirama doesn’t look angry as he says this. He doesn’t look upset. He just looks tired.

There’s a sharp, abortive movement in the room behind the window. Hands clench on a tabletop, but the room is silent.

“Can we speak openly?” Hashirama asks.

“What are we doing now, if not speaking openly?” Madara responds. There’s a trace of bitterness; a sardonic cant to his words as they echo in the chamber.

“Not speaking openly,” Hashirama says, almost petulantly. “We haven’t spoken openly for years.”

Madara is silent for a long moment. His eyes fall back down to the floor; to his hands, still balled into fists on his knees. “It’s a question of power, Hashirama,” he says at last, and his words are soft, but shatteringly heavy between the two of them. “It’s about who has power, and who does not.”

“If it will let us speak plainly, then.” Hashirama reaches around his back; draws a thin _tanto_ out of a hidden sheath. It is the only weapon in the chamber. He leans forward, setting it on the ground, within arm’s reach of Uchiha Madara.

“What the _fuck_ is he thinking?” hisses a cold voice in the room behind the window. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go."

Madara eyes the blade with cold, black eyes. “What is this?”

“A level playing field,” Hashirama says, settling back into the _seisa_. “As close to one as I can make it. I owe you a death, after all.”

“Should we intervene?” asks a low voice in the dark room.

After a still silence, the other voice answers, “No.”

Down in the room, Uchiha Madara reaches forward and picks up the _tanto_ with his right hand. “You owe me… a death?”

“It’s my turn,” Hashirama said. “I killed you, after all. It’s only fair you get a shot, too.” He winks, and the audacity of the motion startles something in Uchiha Madara.

“… This isn’t what I meant,” Madara says at last, setting the blade back down on the ground.

“Fine,” Hashirama says. “But the offer is still there. I want to talk to you, Madara. I want to know –”

“You won’t understand,” Madara interrupts. His fists return to their position on his knees, knuckles white against the black fabric. “You have no frame of reference to understand. How could you? You, the Hokage, who built this village?”

“You built this village as much as I did,” Hashirama interjects sharply. There’s a dark look in his eyes as he leans forward. “This is your responsibility, as much as it is mine. Your _clan_ is your responsibility. If I have no frame of reference, it is not for lack of trying. The time for excuses is past. Either I leave this room understanding – understanding you, your dreams for the future, your assault on the village, _everything_ – or I will leave this room a corpse.”

Madara laughs at this. He tips his face towards the ceiling, one hand coming up to cover his eyes. “What? What if I refuse to kill you? What kind of ultimatum is that, Hashirama?”

“Then I’ll kill myself,” Hashirama says flatly. “And then they’ll execute you, regardless. Tobirama will become Hokage after I am gone – or, well, we’ll have a ‘democratic election’ and he will become Hokage –”

Madara is shaking his head with incredulity.

“–then all your doomed premonitions will surely come to pass regardless,” Hashirama finishes, cocking his head.

“You seem to have put some thought into this,” Madara observes. “Not feeling quite as sure of the village’s future any more, Hashirama?”

Hashirama shook his head. “There’s merit to your complaints,” he says. “There’s always been merit. But you wouldn’t actually _talk_ to me, so I never heard them.” There’s something very raw in his eyes as he says, “I never heard them until it was too late.”

“You don’t understand,” Madara repeats. He shifts, suddenly, and knives are suddenly bared in the room behind the window – but he just settles into a cross-legged position on the floor with a contained wince.

“Then help me understand,” Hashirama says, mirroring his stance.

Madara sighs, and looks away. His eyes drift up to the window cut into the wall, then down to the bared _tanto_ on the floor. “Why?” he says. “It won’t change. Not –” he says, holding a hand up as Hashirama opens his mouth. “– for lack of trying. It won’t change because it _can’t_. The driving flaws are intrinsic to human nature. If your dream of peace is a garden, Hashirama, human nature is the weed – rip it out all you like, poison the roots, shield your plants from the wind – but it’ll spring back all the same.”

“That’s a bad metaphor,” Hashirama says, crossing his arms. “There’s a lot of ways to deal with weeds. Planting the right kind of ground cover –”

“Okay,” Madara says. “It was a bad metaphor. But you get my point.”

“Not sure I do, actually,” Hashirama says stubbornly. “You’re saying the village system is doomed to failure because of the inherent flaws in human nature? Fine. What’s your solution, then? What do you propose? The village is better than warring clans, surely.”

“Village systems will only beget conflicts on a larger scale,” Madara says. “When it was just clans, the grudges could only run so deep. Eventually you run out of brothers to murder.”

“Is your solution a return to the clan system?” Hashirama asks, furrowing his brow.

“No,” Madara says. “I…” For the first time, there’s hesitation in his voice. His eyes flick up, again, to the small window, then back down to rest on Hashirama’s face. “Remember how I showed you the inside of the Nakano Shrine.”

Something breaks in the small room. “He _what_?” demands a voice.

“Yes,” Hashirama said. “And the tablet interred there.”

“Yes. Do you remember what was written on the tablet?”

“The history of the Uchiha clan.”

“And a prophecy, of sorts.”

“Two halves making one whole?”

“Would it be arrogant to place us in those roles?” Madara muses, scratching his chin. “Our cooperation did give rise to this village… But that’s beside the point. I told you how there was something else written there.”

“You didn’t tell me what.”

“I didn’t,” Madara agrees. “Before I do, though, can someone remove the Uchiha from that little room up there? This isn’t something for young ears. It’s the one from Tobirama’s team? Kagami?”

There’s a loud clatter in the dark room behind the window. Six pairs of sharp, angry eyes turn to the figure standing in front of the glass. The figure does not move.

Madara does not look away from Hashirama. “I’m not going to tell you if there’s a young Uchiha in the room. If he wants to know this story, he can go read it for himself.” Madara pauses. “Once he obtains the Choku-Tomoe Sharingan, anyway.”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama says.

After a long, still moment, a door opens and shuts in the distance.

“The Uchiha tablet,” Madara says. “Tells the story of the God Tree, and how humans obtained chakra.”

The story flows from him like a river. In another life, Madara might have been a storyteller. In another life, he might not have killed a man before he turned six. But in this life, he is not a storyteller, and he has killed many, many men. The story flows regardless.

Hashirama’s face darkens with every word.

“It ends,” Madara says. “With instructions. A suggestion, if you look at it a certain way. There’s a jutsu that can be cast, under the right conditions, that will bring peace to everyone in the world – anywhere the moon casts its light.”

“What conditions?” Hashirama asks.

Their voices are quiet under the bright lights of the domed chamber. The people in the little room almost have to strain to hear them.

Madara cocks his head, lips tightening briefly. Then he says, “If one were to gain the power of the Sage of Six Paths, an ocular dojutsu would become available to them. They could cast it on the moon, and through it, cast a genjutsu on everyone on Earth. In such a place, under such conditions, peace would be possible.”

“So,” Hashirama says. “If I am understanding you correctly – which I think I am, now – you are saying that the key to solving the intractable problem of human’s inability to connect is to lock them all in a dream?”

“More or less,” Madara says, shrugging. “I mean, that _was_ the plan. It’s kind of…” he gestures around them, at the empty chamber. “Less feasible now, anyway.”

“Your plan is bad,” Hashirama says crisply, sitting upright.

“What?”

“Your plan,” Hashirama repeats. “Is bad. You have a bad plan. The rock is dumb, and this plan is bad.”

Madara boggles. “No – what? No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Shut up!”

“No,” Hashirama unfolds his legs and gets to his feet. “I’m healing you.”

Madara scrambles backwards. “You’re not going to _touch_ me,” he spits, eyes flaring red.

“Are you going to make me chase you around the room? Sit still,” Hashirama says. He lunges, suddenly, and seizes Madara by the front of his robes. One hand, glowing bright green, goes around his back, covering the neat hole in his scapulae; the other remains fisted in the black fabric at his front.

Up in the small, dark room, Tobirama frowns and crosses his arms.

“Your plan,” Hashirama says softly to Madara, who is trapped between his arms and the floor. “Is deeply flawed. It is a nihilistic, apocalyptic, and ultimately _temporary_ fix. For whom are we creating peace but for the ones who will come after us? Who will come after us if we all die trapped in a genjutsu? More to the point, if it’s the moon shining down on us, what about the people who are underground when you’re casting the spell? Or asleep? If it’s an ocular jutsu, won’t they need to see the moon to be affected by it? What if it’s a clear night for you, and you cast it, but it’s raining in Amegakure? Do they get left out of your peace? What –”

“Shut _up_!” Madara says. He’s half-lying on the floor, propped up on one elbow, on hand pushing futilely at Hashirama’s shoulder. Hashirama is still healing him. Madara is doing everything in his power not to let it show how much better it feels to be able to take a full lungful of air. “Shut up, shut up, _god_ , you’re so annoying –”

“But I’m _right_ ,” Hashirama says. “I’m right and you _know_ it. Imagine all the nitpicks Tobirama’ll have with this plan! We’d be here for hours.”

“Just execute me already,” Madara says, shoving again at the shoulder hovering over his torso. “That’s why you’re here, I know it is – just take that _tanto_ and –”

“No,” Hashirama says flatly. “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that. You’re not dying today. Hopefully, you’re not going to die again for a _long_ time.”

It sounds really, really ominous when he puts it like that, but he means it! Hashirama releases his grip on Madara’s robes and lets him pull away. The Uchiha patriarch scoots backwards by the seat of his pants until his back hits the wall. He’s glaring at Hashirama like he’d spit in his face.

“You have a responsibility,” Hashirama said, folding his legs back into a sitting position. “You have a _job_. Your weed metaphor might not have been that bad, come to think of it. Assuming we accept your premise, human nature tends towards greed and strife, right?”

Madara narrows his eyes.

“If there are to be winners, there must be losers. I get that! I’ve been gambling more, lately, so I really, _really_ get that.” When Hashirama laughs, there is something hard and sharp in his throat. “But I think you’re taking things out of context.” He stands again and walks back over to the _zabuton_ and the abandoned _tanto_. He picks it up and examines it, the light glinting off of the smooth planes of the knife as he does so.

“Out of context,” Madara repeats.

“Sure. Let’s say you throw two mortal enemies into a locked room and give them a knife. One of them’s probably going to kill the other, right?” The _tanto_ spins in Hashirama’s fingers, and he sheathes it in one smooth motion. “ _But_ , what you have to ask is this – why are they enemies? Why are they fighting in the first place? Sure, we could just go in there and cut off their hands – they couldn’t stab each other anymore, or at least they’d have to work a lot harder for it. But why were they fighting in the first place?”

“No, Hashirama, stop,” Madara gets to his feet as well, balancing against the rough stone wall as he does so. “I can see where you’re going with this – you missed my point. My point is that it doesn’t _matter_. Lock two strangers in a room, you’ll have the same effect – people will take any opportunity they can to create conflict. It’s what we do, as humans. It’s our nature.”

“Is it?” Hashirama says quietly. He walks up to Madara, whose back is again to the stone wall. “Is that what happened with us?”

Madara can’t meet his gaze. He licks his lips. His eyes slide back up to the room, cut high on the sloping walls.

“What happened between us, Madara?” Hashirama muses, leaning one shoulder against the stone wall and folding his arms. There’s plenty of space – if Madara wanted to, he could easy step aside, create distance between them – but he doesn’t.

“You were there,” Madara says quietly.

“I was,” Hashirama says, nodding. “I never wanted to be your enemy. I don’t think you wanted to be mine, either.”

Madara says nothing. He’s staring at the black square _zabuton_ in the middle of the floor.

“According to your framework, though,” Hashirama continues, finger tapping against his chin. “That shouldn’t really matter. I guess we can put it to the test, here and now? After all, we are two…” He pauses. “Let’s say we’re two strangers, for the sake of simplicity.” Madara snorts in something that could be repressed laughter, but the smile is gone as soon as it comes.

Hashirama draws the _tanto_ again from its sheath; flips it in his hand so that he’s holding the blade; then taps the handle against Madara’s collarbone. “Here. Take it.”

Madara doesn’t move.

Hashirama pushes off the wall, leaning towards his face, forcing their eyes to meet. “We’re two strangers, locked in a room,” Hashirama says. “There’s a knife. What conflict will spring up between us? What’ll be the catalyst for our fight? There’s gotta be something, come on. Take the knife, Madara.”

There’s a muscle working in Madara’s jaw. His eyes are locked with Hashirama’s. He makes no motion to take the knife.

Hashirama leans even closer and taps the handle against Madara’s chin. “I can think of several things you could kill me for, right off the top of my head. Your own death, for one. I denied you revenge for Izuna. I listened to and favored my clan over yours, thereby establishing a precedent for future subjugation down the line.” Hashirama pauses, pursing his lips. “I think I still owe you 20 ryo from dinner a few years ago.”

“What…” Madara’s voice is hoarse. He breaks off the sentence and swallows, sharply, pushing Hashirama’s hand away as he does so. “What are you trying to achieve, here?”

“I’m proving a point,” Hashirama says. “To you. I know where I stand; I know what I want. Admittedly, I’m still a little shaky on how to get there, per se, but I’ll figure it out. I just need to get you on the same page, conceptually-speaking.”

“I – what?” Madara is looking at him like he’d grown another head.

“Madara,” Hashirama says. “I want what I’ve always wanted. What I told you I wanted in the shrine. You didn’t listen then, and I’m pretty sure you’re not listening now. Listen to me.”

Madara drew in a shaking breath. “Fine.”

“I want you to work with me,” Hashirama says, and the words are so quiet that the people in the little room cut high on the wall cannot hear at all. “I want you here, in the village, with me. I want your insight. I want your wit. I want your strength at my side, and your hand in mine. This is our village. I have a responsibility to it. _You_ have a responsibility to it. If this is our garden, then we are the gardeners. If human nature is the weed, then we’ll be on our knees at dawn, ripping it out of the soil. What does it matter to the plants if the weed keeps coming back? The plants will be tended to, regardless. They’ll be watered; they’ll have the sun; their roots will grow deep into the soil.” Hashirama smiles warmly, and brushes a lock of hair away from Madara’s face. “It’s our job to not only tend the garden, Madara, but to teach the gardeners. That’s the point. That’s how you bring about peace.”

“Sentimental,” Madara says. “You’re sentimental, and you’re running this metaphor to the ground. What if you get a bad gardener? What if someone takes over the garden and burns it to the ground?”

“Ashes can make an excellent fertilizer,” Hashirama says blithely.

Madara laughed, and it was an abortive, choking thing. “Where was all this before?” he asks, turning his face away to hide his smile.

“Buried,” Hashirama says. “I don’t know. I’ve been… thinking. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since our last fight.”

“Did you regret killing me?” Madara asks quietly, staring at the curve of the rock wall. “Did you mourn, Hashirama?”

Hashirama’s eyes drop. He does not answer.

“What will happen to me now?” Madara asks. “Will I be executed for making war on Konoha?”

“What will you do now?” Hashirama asks instead. “If I let you go free, where would you go? What would you do? Would you pursue this –” Hashirama’s mouth twists and he dismissively waves his hand at the wrist.

“Moon’s Eye Plan,” Madara supplies helpfully.

“It’s a bad name, too. Incredible.”

Madara shoves him. Hashirama staggers backwards – only to find Madara’s hands are still fisted in his _haori_. Madara tightens his grip, and then suddenly there’s a mouth pressing against Hashirama’s. It’s rough, wind-chapped and it scrapes his lips – Hashirama reels for a fraction of a second – and then buries his hands in Madara’s hair, pressing him backwards, back against the wall.

“God fucking damn it,” says a voice inside the small dark room, and a shape falls, exasperatedly, into an open chair.


End file.
